A Slave's Place
By Nancy Ava Miller
A slave’s place
is half a pace
behind the striding Mistress—
Not beside
unless she longs to grip his hand
or slip a strong arm through his.
A slave’s seat
is at the feet of Mistress,
groveling, debased—his place;
clinging firm to sturdy legs,
warming ankles with eager fingers,
gazing up towards open cunt,
and the stern stare of Mistress.
A slave’s eyes
never rise
to confront that stare.
And where lies Slave in bed—his place?
His head rests—
hemmed in by Mistress thighs—
beneath the throbbing cunt, that salty space
dripping juices, blood, and piss.
Lick it
Suck it
Kiss it
Love it
till the order comes to cease.
And if he slows
the strap will crack upon Slave’s sweating skin.
His cock grows thick
and stiff as oak
as Mistress guides it in.
Panting, panting
On top rocking
While Slave sprawls trapped,
locked in below.
He calls
He pleads
Says not to stop.
But she slaps his glistening face.
To ask? To order?—Not Slave’s place.
She might then surround the cock
with lips and tongue and mouth and spit.
Though it is not Slave’s place
to ask or whimper
Should instead she force a finger
tight into his virgin ass.
And what of it?
So that finger touches shit.
So his mustache tastes of blood,
sweetly reeks of slit.
Boundaries start to blur between them
While all sounds intermingle
Till one can’t tell
who speaks (or thinks),
or farts, or moans—he or she or both.
Her face mirrors his face
As Slave recalls his rightful place
Owned by her, he also owns.
Once a storm came pelting down,
And all around—the grumbling thunder,
a saddening song of rain,
like longing for a child now dead
(or grown).
Another bed, Another man.
Mistress kissed and touched.
Altho’ it seems her brain
Has broken free of cranium
And lifted from the sweaty room,
Sailing like a toy balloon
Up above the churning clouds
Beyond the damp, the bleak, the chill—
Broken free against her will,
Fleeing from that other one.
(His cock now in, he has her
pinned to crumpled sheets.
She behaves accordingly:
hinting quietly of love,
the moans, the straining,
While high above that shadowed room,
She and Slave have rendezvoused,
Interlaced as souls can do
Slave’s place, she knows,
is her place too—
Beyond beyond some groaning man,
Floating far from blackened rain.)
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